


What an Unpleasant Surprise

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q just wants tea, so of course his favorite cafe has a Bond in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What an Unpleasant Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to infiniteeight for the beta!

The tea situation at MI-6 is respectable. They keep a good stock, and they keep it mostly fresh. They do not, however, have a particularly good record with Earl Grey. It’s either not available, or what’s left is in crumpled bags with broken string. Q tries to keep his personal stash under lock and key, but one does not lock up good tea in Q-branch and not expect one’s subordinates to figure ways around the lock. The run of thefts has actually led to three different lock-pick gadgets going through the very early stages of R&D. It’s become a successful, if odd, motivational tool, his tea.

The problem with a motivational tool that works, however, is that one occasionally finds oneself working very late on a very difficult project and opens one’s triple-locked drawer to discover one’s stash of tea completely missing. Q isn’t certain if he should hand out congratulations or a few well-aimed test viruses, but he is certain he requires at least one more cup of tea to keep him awake enough to be useful.

In the back of his mind, as he puts on his parka to head down the street to the café that is his preferred back up for such instances of clever thievery, a voice that sounds surprisingly like James berates him for staying extra-late again.

“What do you know?” Q mutters to his inner voice as he gets on the elevator and taps the code to get to the ground floor. “You’ve not been by in a week, you over-working tit.” He rolls his eyes at the fake conversation as the elevator opens on the ground floor, and walks to the front door, signing out and flashing his ID before the guards will let him leave the building.

The café is two blocks away, set on a corner surrounded by office buildings. It’s a warm light in the general darkness of the street, and Q grins a little as he quickens his step to get inside. He likes the vibe of the café, with its bright white walls and rows of glass jars of teas. The tables are all dark wood with matching chairs, set up in neat rows on one side of the shop. The other side is dominated by a collection of threadbare couches and chairs and a wall of dog-eared, well-loved books in a floor to ceiling shelf. Q does a quick visual recon of the café as he steps inside. There’s a couple curled on one of the couches, talking quietly. There’s a study group at one of the larger tables, books and papers and laptops scattered around numerous mugs and plates of half-eaten food. There are two men in the far back, in the only shadowy spot in the whole café, and Q watches that corner with careful intensity as he stands in line to put in his order. He can’t make out their faces, and the way the chairs are placed—off-center unlike the chairs at the tables around them—he knows it was a deliberate choice. Whoever these men are, they don’t want to be seen or noticed.

Q drops his hands to the pockets of the parka. He has a knife in the left pocket, a butterfly blade he prefers for the way the flash of it opening distracts most opponents. In his right pocket, he has only his mobile, but it’s a mobile he created, and he knows that if he presses his thumb to the power button without pressing down, it will send an all-points cry for help back to MI-6. Q doubts he’ll need it, but there’s something familiar about the man in the furthest shadows, and it’s scratching Q’s instincts like a cat against a sofa.

He’s stepping up to the counter to place his order when he hears it. A click, loud in the quiet of the café, coming from the shadowed corner. He can’t place the make and model, but he runs the whole bloody armory for MI-6. He knows the sound of a gun cocking like he knows the sound of his own breath.

“Pardon me,” he says to the woman at the counter, and he cuts across the room, pulling the knife from his pocket and pressing the point of the blade to the back of the neck of the man facing away from the room. He hides the movement with his body, drops his right hand on the man’s shoulder so it looks, to someone not paying close attention, like he is simply greeting someone he might recognize. “I would recommend you put the gun down, Sir.”

“Leave.”

It comes, surprisingly, from the man across the table. Q looks at him for the first time, and his fingers tighten on his captive. “You must be joking,” he says. Because it’s Bond. Of course it’s Bond. Because who bloody else would be held at gunpoint at the café Q prefers near headquarters. It couldn’t possibly be a junior agent. No. It has to be _the_ goddamn double-o of all the double-o’s.

“I am not joking,” Bond says, and he’s using his low register that only comes out during times of threat or sex. “Get out.”

Q stands perfectly still for a few more seconds, staring Bond down for the pure defiance of it before he lets go of his captive and takes a step back. “My mistake,” Q says. “Thought you were someone I knew.” He pockets his knife before he turns, and as soon as he’s facing the front of the café again, he hears the man he threatened push back his chair.

The clerk at the counter yelps, and Q drops to his knees and feels the ghost of the man’s hand sweep over his head. Q grabs a nearby chair and comes up swinging. It’s a solid wood chair, and Q thrusts it forward like a lion tamer, trapping the man between the legs and stomping on his foot to get the man to give ground and go flailing backwards until he hits the back wall.

“Little help?” Q asks as the man struggles. Bond is simply watching, as though Q is a sideshow attraction. 

“Seems you’ve got it in hand,” Bond replies, but he moves as he says it, comes around Q’s left side, takes the man’s gun from its holster, and pulls cuffs from his pockets to wrap around the man’s wrist.

Q drops the chair when Bond has the man properly trussed up. “I’m going back to work,” he says. “Earl Gray, no sugar, splash of milk.”

“Get it yourself,” Bond growls. “I’ve got a prisoner to escort because someone budged his nose in.”

“Next time sit where I can see your face, and I’ll let him shoot you,” Q replies. “Earl gray, no sugar, splash of milk,” and then he turns on his heel and leaves, knowing Bond won’t call after him because it will only cause a bigger disturbance. The couple on the couch near the front of the shop look shocky; the study group has gone perfectly still, and the clerk is still ducked behind the counter, but Q doesn’t stop to reassure any of them. He stalks back to headquarters, flashes his ID at the guards, signs in, and then goes straight to Q-branch. 

Late shift is as busy as when he left; there’s no rest for the wicked or the experimental, and Q looks for someone to yell at, but they’re all doing their due diligence, and his fit of temper isn’t their fault, anyway. He walks to his office, a frosted glass cube tucked into a corner next to the armory proper. Moneypenny is sitting on his couch. His mug is sitting center on his blotter. Balanced on top are a tea bag and a syringe full of milk. Q eyes Moneypenny and then the gift. He picks up the syringe and holds it out towards her.

“Bond just said a ‘splash,’” Moneypenny answers. “As I know a few people who think a splash is half a mug, I didn’t want to get it wrong.”

“Or make the tea, apparently,” Q mutters.

Moneypenny stands and smoothes her skirt. “Bond’s the one who owes you the tea. Get him to make it. Although, I’d watch close to make sure it’s actually the milk he puts in it.”

Q chuckles without meaning to. When he looks at Moneypenny again, he grins. “Didn’t mean to take your head off,” he says. “You are a delight.”

“You are dating a boorish monster of a man,” Moneypenny says. “You’re allowed that one. You mouth off again, I’ll use you as target practice.”

“Thank you,” Q says.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, and lets herself out, closing the door behind her.

Q stares at the syringe still in his hand and shakes his head. He sits and opens the mini-fridge he keeps under his desk, stashing the syringe before moving his mug and the tea bag to a corner of his desk. The adrenaline from the fight is still buzzing lightly through his body, and adrenaline’s always been better at keeping him awake than tea.

“Reports it is, then,” he mutters and starts to sort through the stack in front of him. Halfway through the first one, Bond walks into his office, locks the door, and presses the button next to the door that takes the windows from frosted to completely opaque. “Optimistic, aren’t you?” Q asks as he looks back at his report.

“No kiss hello?” Bond asks as he crosses the office. Q watches him from the corner of his eye and swallows back a grin when Bond looks at his mug with the tea bag still balanced on it before turning and clicking on the electric kettle.

“You damn near got holes put in my favorite café. You’re lucky I let you in.”

“You can’t lock me out,” Bond bluffs.

“Are you certain?” Q asks, finally looking up, face bland. Bond quirks an eyebrow, and suddenly he’s just James, come to bother Q into going home. “Why the bloody hell were you having a clandestine meeting at the damn café?”

“We were supposed to meet elsewhere, but he changed locations on me right before,” James says as he drops the tea bag into Q’s mug, the tail dangling over the side without the handle. “There was no way to send notice without coming off suspicious.”

“England’s greatest spy can’t get off a quick call?”

James doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close. “Not at that particular moment, no.”

“You’re losing your touch.” Q lets James tilt his head back.

“Am I?” James asks, and it’s that deep gravel tone again, the mix of danger and sex. James laughs against Q’s mouth when Q clenches a hand in his jacket. “Easy now.”

“Why?” Q asks, and he pulls James in the rest of the way, kissing him hard on the mouth and letting go of James’s jacket so he can grab at his waist through his shirt. 

“I’m due back upstairs for a full debrief,” James says. “I just came down to return my toys.”

“Apologize to your toys, more like,” Q mutters against his mouth, and James chuckles again as he sets his radio on Q’s desk. Q pulls away and straightens James’s jacket. “Off you go, then.”

“Not quite,” James says. He lifts the kettle and pours the water over the tea bag. He replaces the kettle and makes certain it’s turned off before he reaches into the mini-fridge and stops short at the syringe. “Don’t explain it,” he says as he picks up the syringe and turns it over in his hands. 

“It’s really very simple,” Q says, taking the syringe and squirting some of the milk into his tea.

“I have to go,” James says, and Q isn’t entirely certain he’s not just saying it to skip the explanation. “I’ll see you later.”

“Are you certain?” Q asks, all joking out of his tone. “You’ve not been by in a week. Don’t promise to come by if you can’t be certain you’ll make it.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?”

“Tired,” Q corrects. “I need to know how much of the bed I can take over.”

“Leave me half,” James says. He leans down and kisses Q one more time. 

“We’ll see,” Q replies as James leaves, pressing the button to return the walls to their frosted setting. James doesn’t look back, but Q is certain he walked out smiling. He picks up his tea and has a drink.

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt: Q getting into hot water in one of James's situations, James getting mad, and them then making up. It's a little loose around the edges in terms of the exact details, but I think it turned out all right overall.


End file.
